Before Sunrise
by Shadowy Star
Summary: Some things are too fragile for daylight. DxG


**Before Sunrise**

by Shadowy Star

December 2005

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy. It belongs to C.S. Friedman. I do own this story. Do not archive or translate or otherwise use it without permission.

**A/N:** Some things are too fragile for daylight.

Just another missing scene from my collection. Set in the rakh lands, after Damien's near-drowning in that river in BSR.

* * *

"Gerald."

He turned around to face his apprentice, impatience rising within him. Right now he had something better to do than to teach an once-been adept in sorcery. Even if the rakh feared him, there were still so many of them. They couldn't harm him anyway but for his companions… _That_ was something completely different.

"Gerald, please. It's about Damien. He's in bad shape," Ciani of Faraday said.

He whirled around. "What's happened?" he asked instantly.

"Fever," she answered. "Please. Zen is not a Healer and I…" she trailed off, bitterness clearly audible in her voice.

He nodded stiffly and turned to the tent where the priest was lying. Behind him, he felt Lady Faraday follow.

He knelt beside Vryce. His apprentice had been right – the priest was in a really bad shape. Even if the hypothermia hadn't managed to kill him, the fever most certainly would. He molded the fae into a tentative Knowing. And drew in a deep breath, sharply.

"Leave," he commanded.

"But–" Senzei Reese started.

"Now!" he said, forcing himself to calmness.

They fled. He smiled inwardly, the faint taste of their fear pleasing him.

Then, he turned his attention to Vryce again. The skin beneath the golden tan was flushed with fever, and sweat covered this handsome face. Carefully, he removed the blankets wrapped around the priest's body before taking a wrist for checking the pulse. The heartbeat beneath his fingers was fast, wild and unsteady – not a good sign at all. He put his other hand on Damien Vryce's forehead, deepening his Knowing even more. As he'd mused, in his battle against the viremia, Damien was losing ground. Slowly, he ran his hands across the priest's skin, using the chill of his own body to reduce the fever. So many scars, he wondered briefly. Across the ribcage, then a single long, thick silver line on the stomach –_That must have been bad,_ he thought– and more of short, thin, well-healed lines on arms and shoulders. Gently, he traced the scars one by one. How broad Damien's shoulders were, he thought, how strong his arms. His fingers weren't long enough to measure the span of Damien's biceps. Their journey had thinned the priest's frame, leaving only bones and muscles behind to shape a lean, strong form he couldn't help but admire.

Somehow, it bothered him to see Damien that helpless. Of course, he was infuriating and stubborn but also courageous and brave. When did it happen that he started to rely on that strength, he asked himself and frowned immediately. Where did _that_ thought come from? Surely, it was due to that link between them. He hadn't expected the bond to affect him that much. But then again, how could it not? A channel between souls, and his was still human, after all. He couldn't deny it any longer. A thousand years of life had taught him better, at the very least. Fooling himself had never been an option to him. The priest might have a point insisting there was still humanity inside him.

He shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his thoughts. To pursue that track of thought was dangerous and stupid both. Humanity or not, he still was what the Unnamed Ones had made of him. Then what was that strange sensation he experienced every time he looked at Damien? There was something deep inside him, once known, nearly forgotten, something he couldn't quite remember but also not quite forget. A feeling of…? It left him confused each time he thought about the matter. And being confused was something Gerald Tarrant definitely did not like. How, he thought, successfully conjuring anger, did the damned priest always manage to make him feel like that? How could Damien make him _feel_?

Said priest tossed in his delirium, letting out a weak groan, and Gerald's whirl of thoughts stopped suddenly, frozen with another unfamiliar emotion. Dread. He forced it aside and focused on their link instead. It was crucial to the priest to be conscious if the cure was meant to take hold.

"Reverend," he called.

∞

Damien drifted on a wave of warmth. The numbness of the hypothermia had finally left his bones, leaving only the blessed heat of –what?– behind. Gradually, he became aware of something wrong. If he only could figure out what it was… But there was warmth, a heat so intense that he shivered. It was welcome to his chilled body, and he was about to sink back as a far, distant voice spoke.

"Reverend."

Too far away, he decided. Not worth listening. He turned away to embrace the heat in each cell of his body.

"Vryce!" The same voice, more urgent this time. Closer now, but still far away. The warmth was still waiting for him. _Wait,_ he thought and hesitated. _Think._ He shivered again. Thinking was difficult in this place. Slowly, the realization came. He must be ill. Fever caused that heat which here, inside his body, he experienced as right even if his body knew that it wasn't, and still tried to fight. _You need to wake up. You need to Heal yourself._

"Damien!" Once again that voice, smooth and powerful. Familiar. Close as if speaking right into his ear. Calling his name. Calling him to the world of the living. A link came into sight, focused on the touches of cool hands against his forehead and his right wrist. He struggled to hold onto that voice, following it to…

With effort, he opened his eyes.

"About time," the voice said. Something like relief was in it but in his current state his perception might have fooled him.

"I thought I lost you," Tarrant said quietly, turning his gaze away.

_Definitely relief,_ Damien thought. "What–?" he managed.

"Viremia," Tarrant explained shortly. "I have to cleanse it out."

What kind of emotion lingered in the depths of those silver eyes, Damien asked himself. Concern? Or … even more than that?

"It's going to be … unpleasant," the Hunter added.

Finally, Damien understood. _Coldfire, of course,_ he thought. _What else?_ He drew a deep breath and nodded weakly. 'Unpleasant' was surely an understatement but what choice did he have? He was certainly not able to manage a Healing himself. "Go ahead."

Tarrant looked at him, eyes intent. "I'm sorry," he said.

And before Damien could voice an answer, coldfire flooded into his veins. His whole body spasmed shortly, convulsing at the pain. His right hand clenched around slender fingers. Was this what dying felt like? His consciousness rapidly fading, he heard Tarrant say.

"You _will not_ die. I promise."

Then, everything went black.

∞

Gerald Tarrant leaned back, pleased with the result of his efforts. The worst was over. Damien's forehead was still hot but not as scalding as before, and he was sure the fever wouldn't rise again. Hesitatingly, he reached out and brushed the priest's damp, brown hair from his forehead. It'd grown shoulder-long on this journey for Damien didn't care to cut it to its former length and now suited this face better, smoothing those sharp angles of jaw and cheek bone. He traced the eyebrows with his fingertips, touched the lids lightly, mapping that handsome face. Wondering at the same time what caused him to do such a –foolish? human?– thing. Of course, Damien was handsome, and he always valued beauty, yes, but… There was much more to it. For reasons he didn't dare contemplate he leaned down and placed a quick kiss to Damien's cracked lips.

Then, hastily, he rose to his feet and left the tent.

If he'd stayed just one second longer he would have heard Damien's unconscious whisper.

"Gerald…"

Outside, the first rays of the dawn painted the skies with silver.


End file.
